Human for a Day (9781101552391) by Jennifer (EDT) Martin Harry (EDT); Brozek Greenberg

man who had defeated it when he should not have.
    Again and again, the Soulsword came against the Bloodsword. The Rival faced them each time, and each time, the sword’s chosen wielder failed. None could match the Rival. And every time, the Rival reclaimed the sword and returned it to its place in the shrine.
    The sword hungered with a painful longing.
    One day, it would find the right wielder.
    One day.
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    In time, men came to pray over the sword. They filled the shrine, kneeling before the altar, and communed with what men cannot see. None of them touched the sword that could not sleep. It demanded—it begged—it raged —to no avail.
    Every day, as light first filtered across the altar, a single monk came to cleanse the sword, and every day, the sword fought him. Called to him. Demanded of him.
    Every day, the sword cut his cleaning cloth in two, and every day the monk brought a new one to wipe the blade. This he did for honor’s sake. The sword did not need cleaning: dust split apart and fell away from the sword’s flawless edge.
    Every day, the monk bathed the blade in blessed water, which the sword also cut. The droplets fell in two upon the altar, never touching the blade that rejected them. The monk, fearful of the sword’s hunger, took care never to touch it with his own hand.
    Even after men stopped coming to pray over the sword, the monk still came to purify it. Soon, only they two occupied that place—caretaker and treasure.
    The sword hungered not for cloth and water, but for flesh and blood. It existed only to kill, not to be cleaned and prayed over and displayed like a trophy.
    It would have its vengeance, and one day was all it needed.
    One day.
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    Then one day, the monk who tended the sword made a mistake. He had grown old and lost the deftness of youth. In wiping the blade, he touched the edge with his bare finger.
    Instantly, the flesh split and blood welled. The man staggered away and fell. Red spattered his robe as the wound gushed. The man tried to rise but his body grew weak.
    At long last, the Bloodsword bathed once again in that for which it hungered. In blood, there was power. The sword had learned, with countless wielders, how to use that power in a different way than before. No wielder had been worthy of its power, so it would have no wielder. It no longer had any need for one.
    As the monk lay dying, the sword on the altar trembled. Its shaking grew, and it tumbled from its rack and clattered to the floor. There it danced, end to end and back, until finally it stood in stillness upon its point. Darkness swirled around it, tinged with blood—
    And then it was a man.
    A particular man: its only worthy wielder, whose face had been reflected in its steel countless times. Dark hair, pale skin, red eyes.
    The Master.
    The sword was wholly a man then, and saw the world as men did. Before it could take a single step, it— he —fell to his knees. He had his own blood, beating in his own veins. Pressure built in his chest as though he would explode, and finally it left in a great flood of air. Breath.
    So many years of battle had taught him of men’s strengths and weaknesses. He knew how they moved, how they fought—and now he knew how they breathed.
    Soon, he would teach many how men died.
    He rose, moved, and almost fell. He sought to learn the ways of men’s bodies. He grunted and hissed—he strained and flexed. He learned.
    In a moment, he knew everything there was to know about men’s bodies. He knew how they moved and could be moved—how they could be killed.
    The ways of men included more than movement: he explored his new senses as well. He smelled incense, which almost overwhelmed him with its sharp tang. Beneath that smell, there was wood and pitch. And blood, of course—the monk had left a pool of it.
    The sword-become-man moved to the monk on the floor and knelt with the grace of water flowing over stone. He opened his